


Keeping Tabs

by AlphaFlyer



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bureaucracy, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Paperwork, SHIELD, pre- pretty much everything because I can't deal with canon right now, pre-Natasha joins SHIELD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 22:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaFlyer/pseuds/AlphaFlyer
Summary: "We need metrics by which to determine the effectiveness of our work.  Including your work, Agent Barton.”“In other words, you need me to start a body count?”Maria Hill helps Clint with his paperwork.





	Keeping Tabs

**Author's Note:**

> So, over at be_compromised we had a Friday chat about the things Clint and Natasha do to merit the title "master assassins". This one deals with the paperwork.

“I’m sorry, Barton. You what?”  
  
Clint shrugs. He considers himself to be a pretty smart guy, several IQ points beyond the seven or so grades he managed to scrape together during his train wreck of a childhood, but there is one thing he’ll never understand: Bureaucracy. That thing where the untalented demand the unspecified from the unwilling to achieve the unnecessary.   
  
“I flatly refuse,” he says, politely but firmly, “to tick off these boxes, Commander Hill. The only thing I’m prepared to tick off is the Establishment.”  
  
“And you are doing a glorious job with that, Hawkeye. In fact, you’re over-achieving, as usual.”  
  
Despite the snappy comeback Hill does not look amused. She puts on her best corporate face and declaims, “The World Security Council has determined that SHIELD needs to operate on the principles of results-based management, if we want to keep our budget at the same level as last fiscal year. And that means we need metrics by which to determine the effectiveness of our work. Including  _your_ work, Agent Barton.”   
  
“In other words, you need me to start a body count?”  
  
Hill’s lips purse in distaste; her eyes shift slightly to the side and focus on Clint’s  _Archers do it with a Recurve_  mug. She exhales slowly, almost as if she were counting to ten.   
  
“That’s a crude way of putting it, but, yes. I mean, no. Not … in so many words.”  
  
Of course not. The press would have a field day if that showed up in a Freedom of Information release:  _Killed so far this fiscal year? 29. Collateral damage? Zero. Minion count: 57, not including the ones_  …   
  
Clint pulls his legs off his desk, reaches for the top form on his little stack, folds it into a miniature Quinjet and launches it in Hill’s direction.  
  
“Please explain to me then what the hell Records does want, with boxes like  _To what extent did the Outcome meet expectations_? Or  _Was the Outcome consistent with relevant Planning Commitments? Please check off the relevant Commitment._ Hell, least they can do is send me this crap electronically, so I can attach the virus Grigoriy Kuznetsov was ready to unleash when he accidentally interfaced with one of my arrows.”  
  
Hill perks up.  
  
“You got Kuznetsov? I thought Fury sent you after Ryabkin.”  
  
Clint shrugs.  
  
“Well, yeah. They had a sale on. Two for the price of one, if you pick from the same bin.”  
  
Hill does the _okay, then_ thing with her mouth, and gingerly picks the little plane out from where it has lodged in the loose part of her SHIELD badge.   
  
“Fine, let me show you. It’s not as hard as it looks the first time.”  
  
She flattens the paper out on the table and grabs the pen Clint would have sent after the plane but didn’t, because it looks suspiciously like the curare-tipped one he’s supposed to take on his next mission.   
  
“See here?” Hill says, pointing. ” _Outcome_. Four boxes: ‘Did not meet expectations,’ ‘Expectations met,’ ‘Succeeded,’ and, ‘Surpassed.’ All you have to do is pick the one you think applies. And yes, this is where you get to brag. Bureaucracy is all about those little dopamine hits.”   
  
She ticks ‘succeeded’ and moves to the next column before Clint can protest. Apparently the pen isn’t the poisoned one, phew. ‘Coz which box would you tick for ‘accidentally offed the boss’?  
  
Alas, said boss is still very much in the game.  
  
“ _Multiplier effect_  – yes or no?”  
  
Hill looks at him expectantly, like she wants Clint to actually participate in this farce.  
  
“What the hell does that even mean?” he complains. “Whether I knocked off more than one? I thought we’d already settled that under  _Outcome_.”  
  
Hill steadies her breath.  
  
“No, this is about impact beyond the actual …” she hesitates, coughs delicately, and continues, “…mission.”  
  
“I see.”   
  
Clint does, he actually does. Maybe this isn’t a bad way to let those ass hats on the Council see that their pet asset is more than just a hit man with a pension plan? That he can see the big picture, and send that up in smoke, too?  
  
“The place kind of blew up after I left. Might have been the exploding arrow. Anyway, bye-bye, troll farm. For the next couple of months or so, anyway.”  
  
Hill frowns.  
  
“So that’s why the comment section in the Washington Post has gotten so civilized all of a sudden.”  
  
She nods decisively and ticks off the ‘yes’ box, then goes back to the  _Outcome_ section, scratches out ‘succeeded’ and ticks ‘surpassed’. Credit where credit is due, apparently. Clint finds himself going from pissed off to mildly smug, but suppresses the feeling as quickly as it arises.  
  
“So we can count minions under  _Outcome_? I thought that was just for principals.”  
  
Hill shakes her head.   
  
“The term of art is  _co-conspirators_ , Barton. And yes, they do count if the end result is to neutralize an entire operation, like you apparently did.”  
  
She pauses the pen over the paper for a second, to make sure he’s still with her. Clint does his best to feign engagement.  
  
“ _Organizational Commitments_?” Hill says, tapping the paper with the pen. It spritzes a little – green, not blue now, and Clint scrambles to snatch it from her fingers. FitzSimmons are into dual use gadgets now, it appears. Good to know.  
  
“Here, let me give you another one,” he says, hoping his sudden solicitousness won’t raise suspicion. “This one leaks. Mustn’t give Records a spoiled form now, eh?”  
  
He delicately dabs at the green splotch with a balled-up Kleenex, careful to avoid touching the damp spot when he throws it in the bin, and slides the form back over to Hill. She has been watching him with arched eyebrows and now clears her throat.  
  
“Like I said,  _Organizational Commitments_. That’s an easy one – ‘planetary security’. Should always be your go-to, since you’re not into R&D or, heaven forbid, corporate governance.”   
  
The tick mark is pure blue this time, phew. The hand with the pen glides over to the next section and hovers there. Hill is bound to make him part of this, isn’t she?  
  
“And  _Divisional Planning Commitment_? I hate to say it, but just take your pick here, whatever sounds plausible. I’d go for  _Reduce Cyber Threat_  on this one.”  
  
He nods in agreement, as if he actually cares, and she hands him the paper with a triumphant flourish. Mission accomplished – expectations met but not surpassed.  
  
“Not rocket science, Barton. Four boxes to tick. Easy-peasy, especially for a guy who never misses.”  
  
Clint looks at the stack of forms remaining on his desk with a baleful eye.   
  
“Fine,” he says. “You made your point, Hill. Just one more thing, then. How do I score the Black Widow op?”


End file.
